


Brother of My Heart

by AphroditesTummyRolls



Series: To Be Human [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Between the end of the fight and the scene at the pub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, I am not sorry, M/M, Missing Scene, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, This is not Booker bashing but I am definitely not kind to him, and Nicky gets to ruin another person's life with the power of his words, brief discussion of the Crusades, in which Joe finally gets to have a good cry, only a little, the pathetic rat king deserves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:01:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditesTummyRolls/pseuds/AphroditesTummyRolls
Summary: Joe didn’t think about the World Cup or Lord of the Rings as they pulled up the long gravel path to their destination. He didn’t even register his first sighting of the windswept cottage in Scarborough. He didn’t remember parking the car. He barely acknowledged anything outside of Nicky, opening the door, wrapping a warm, grounding hand around his and leading them up to the house. Joe was more tired than he had ever been, he was convinced of it. All 953 years, he’d never been this exhausted, this broken, this hurt.The weathered old door closed behind the lot of them, and Joe heard Andy’s long, tired sigh as she flicked on the light. Nile dragged her feet to the kitchen counter and leaned heavily against it, running her bloody hands down her face. Nicky had done his best to pick the glass out of her braids, but she still looked… well, she looked like she’d jumped out of a penthouse window.She was going to be good for the team. She wouldn’t be like…Booker hovered halfway between Andy and the door, as if he didn’t know if he was supposed to be there. Joe watched him, his brother, standing there with that haunted look in his eye, and it lanced through him like a blade.
Relationships: Booker & Accountability, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: To Be Human [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887949
Comments: 102
Kudos: 775





	Brother of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Let's make some things clear. I love these characters-- they each hold special, nuanced little pieces of my heart. I, too, am a depressed, disastrous bisexual, I vibe with Booker. 
> 
> That being said, this fic is NOT kind to him, and I am not sorry. He deserves it. 
> 
> Another thing (TW for discussion of sexual violence): There's some headcanon stuff floating around about Keane shoving his gun into Nicky's mouth as some sort of pseudo form of sexual violence? I... these headcanons don't bother me, I mean, I get it. I'm a survivor of sexual assault, and I enjoy reading/writing stories where characters I relate to get the care and support that they deserve after being hurt like I was. It helps me reconcile my trauma. But I DON'T GET IT in this case! 
> 
> The way that Keane kills Nicky is intimate, brutal, and MESSY. Joe is gonna talk about it, it's a sticking point for him. But I don't want y'all thinking that when Joe is talking about it, that I am drawing connections to this headcanon, because I simply do not vibe with it. 
> 
> OKAY! Here's the actual note: I wrote this because I was sad and rewatching TOG (like you do when you're sad, obv). And by about halfway through that last fight, poor Joe just needs a good cry. You can see it on his face, and in his body language. You can even hear it in his voice when he's yelling at Booker. That man deserves a nice breakdown, and I’m here to facilitate that for him. 
> 
> I also found myself, once again, drawn to Nicky's deep, quiet rage. I really wanted to hear what he'd say if he could read Booker for filth about what he did. Just... destroy him, baby. I'll hold your flower. 
> 
> These two concepts turned into one LORGE oneshot, because I just couldn't get it out of my head. I hope you love it, and if you do, please shoot me a comment below <3

Joe clenched his hands on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers to feel the stretch in the tendons, even though any injuries from the fighting had long since healed. 

While driving away from the ruins of Merrick’s car, the adrenaline was still rushing in his veins, and all his self control was devoted to staying reasonably within the speed limit. The last thing they needed was to get stopped by some bobby cop while covered in blood and dust, with a bullet through Andy’s stomach. 

Right now, they needed to blend in. So, Joe _didn’t_ press the gas pedal into the floor. 

He was trembling with the need to _run,_ just trying to get himself, and his family, and his _Nicolò_ as far from the scene as possible. His heart pounded in his ears, the long days in captivity bursting through his mind like water through the hull of a sinking ship. 

His gaze darted back to the rearview mirror, holding his memories at bay. They were safe. They were all safe, and they were _together._

Nicky was staring into space, his green eyes circled with dark hoods of exhaustion. He was even more blood spattered than Andy was, his shirt full of bullet holes and his hair sticking up at odd angles in the back. 

Joe swallowed hard around the lump in his dry throat. That was blood, brain matter, and bone caked to the back of his head. 

Keane had shot him. Keane had shoved the muzzle of his gun into Nicky’s mouth. He grabbed him by the hair, he shoved the gun into Nicolo’s mouth, and he had pulled the trigger. The blast sent his skull into the concrete as jagged shrapnel. The sound of the bullet had reverberated in the air, but it couldn’t overwhelm the sickening crunch and the wet splatter of brain on the floor— 

“Joe!” Andy flung out a hand and yanked the steering wheel, pulling him back into reality just in time to narrowly escape where they had been headed straight into oncoming traffic. 

He jerked to attention. His fingers squeezed the wheel again, and he veered back into the right lane. “Sorry Boss.” 

“Are you good to drive?” she didn’t let go of the wheel, only moving her own hand to cover his. He could cry, honestly. “You and Nicky have been through a lot in the past few days.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I actually need this to focus on.” 

It was an honest answer— Joe was never much of a liar. He couldn’t bring himself to think about everything that had happened, and driving let him surrender it all to the illusion of forward motion. 

Andy was studying him, and he knew that she knew that. 

“Okay— Just make sure you _actually_ focus on it. Okay?” 

“Where’re we headed, then?” 

“Scarborough safehouse. That should be far enough north to keep us off the radar.” 

He nodded in agreement, but immediately wished he hadn’t. The bob of his head ended up nothing more than an aborted half-jerk as he became aware of just how heavy his head was. Joe rolled his shoulders against the wash of exhaustion, every single one of his 953 years piling up on him. His adrenaline abandoned him, and he was left with nothing to keep him awake but his grip on the wheel. 

He just wanted to curl up with his Nicolò in the backseat, breathing in the scent of him, knowing that he was there, safe, and whole. They both were. No matter what had happened. 

But he couldn’t do that— not with Booker at Nicky’s other side, apathetically gazing out the window as the landscape shifted from urban London to the gateway of rural England. 

The sight of him twisted something deep in Joe’s gut, sending a pulsating thump of energy through his veins that addled his brain. They had been _betrayed_ by one of their own. 

_Booker._ The brother of his heart. 

He wanted to _rage—_ scream, shout, and show him _just what_ he had signed Joe and Nicky off to. But, for all his centuries of poetry and prose, Joe found himself at a loss for words. It was as if the only thing he could think to say— _“you selfish piece of shit!”_ — was all he could process. The enormity of the loss of Booker was too big to understand. And the reasoning he gave felt so deeply inadequate. 

He had all but blamed it on _them._ He deflected Joe’s words and told him he didn’t understand— as if they had never been family, as if Joe couldn’t fathom the pain of _loss_. Just because he had Nicky? As if Joe and Nicky’s love had driven him down the path against his will— 

He gripped the wheel, driving faster now that they were out on the country roads. Andy was watching him tremble, her eyes still as keen as ever, and he was so tired he almost snapped at her. He could still hear the heart monitor beeping in his head, the way it would start to climb and climb as Nicky’s agony mounted—

 _It’s not far to Scarborough,_ he told himself, even though he knew that it was, _You can hold him then. You can wash him clean, until he’s warm and pink, and every trace of Merrick, Kozak, and Keane_ _have been erased from the memory of his beautiful skin._

It was the only thought that got him through. They zoomed through the English countryside. Sheep, grasslands, and overcast skies that usually Joe would’ve loved to pause for were nothing but blurry shapes and colors through the window. 

Unable to stop himself, Joe would still periodically check the back. He’d scan quickly through the rearview mirror, as if he’d look back and they’d all be gone. 

By the second leg of their trip, most of them were asleep. Joe indulged in the warmth that swelled up in him as he saw the way Nile had curled into Nicky's shoulder. She was spattered in blood, her clothes tattered and dirty. 

Booker was leaned against his precious window, unable to look any of them in the face before passing out. 

Even Andy had eventually closed her eyes, already looking older than Joe had ever seen her. 

For the first time in all the centuries Joe had known her, she looked _fragile._

If he hadn’t quite believed it before, the tang of blood in the air and the tight set of pain in her jaw was enough for it to finally really hit him. She was mortal. 

Somehow, Joe had always assumed that Andromache would outlive them all. She was eternal, solid— a cornerstone of his immortal life. There was nothing in the world as _permanent_ as Andy. 

It was an acute ache to acknowledge that she wasn’t anymore. 

Of all of them, Nicky was the only one awake. He was wound tight as piano wire, staring into the middle distance with his red rimmed gaze. The contrast of the bloodshot redness only made his eyes look greener, bright and nearly feverish in their gleam. 

He was rubbing his thumb in slow patterns over Nile’s wrist where she was squished into his side, and Joe’s heart squeezed in his chest. 

He was looking too long, his gaze intense and maybe a little teary— Nicky felt his eyes on him and met him with a minute huff of tired laughter. 

“Eyes on the road.” He joked half heartedly, but his green gaze was soft when he said “I’m still here, my love.” 

It tightened Joe’s throat to the point of speechlessness, his eyes pricking with heat. He simply smiled, as heartfelt and loving as he could manage without bursting into tears, before he turned back to the empty road ahead. 

He stared at the stretch of asphalt in front of them, forcing himself to focus only on that, despite the events of the past several days warring for dominance in his brain. He just wanted to make _sense_ of it all— the van, the tissue samples, the days of experiments where time had gone slow, punctuated only by agony and unconsciousness; the gut punch of Andy’s mortality; _Booker,_ ripping Joe’s heart out of his chest with more cruelty than even Kozak had done, leaving them to be trapped and tortured for eternity—

The burn of anger was almost more than he could take. The hurt burrowed into his bones and festered there, and Joe swallowed the vitriol in his throat. 

The scenery, then, started becoming more familiar. Distant memories of the last time they’d traveled to Scarborough heralded their approach to their destination. Was it the 1960s? It was after the war was over, but not _too_ long after. He couldn’t remember why they had been there. None of them were particularly fond of the English dampness, even if Joe thought the green hills and dark clouds suited Nicky’s eyes. 

His brain made lazy circles around itself as he drove, trying to remember. Perhaps they had just been passing through? But no, that couldn’t be right. Andy had had a reason to be there. She had to do something a few towns over and left Joe, Nicky, and Booker in the Scarborough cottage together for a whole week. Nicky had torn through the Lord of the Rings trilogy again, reading day and night. He curled himself up like a cat in the window-- Joe had filled nearly a half a sketchbook with him that week-- while Joe and Booker had watched football. It was a tournament. The World Cup? 

The memories tilted his lips into a smile before reality could strike. Had they missed something that week, too? Were there signs that they missed, opportunities to talk not offered? Joe _had_ offered, many times. But that week, had he? Did he take every possible moment to engage his friend-- was Booker right? Was this their fault? 

He sighed, filling his lungs to capacity with oxygen, trying to loosen the dry tightness of his throat. He blinked against the gritty moisture in his eyes and rolled his shoulders, willing himself to stay awake. 

Joe could feel his willpower draining out of him the closer they got, his thoughts tumbling over each other, none of them complete or coherent. It was just Nicky, pieces of him carved away and jarred like a jellied eel— Sample 1, 2, 3… 29, 30, both of them wiped down of the drying blood to reveal themselves _undamaged_ again. New canvases for more torment. All that time, Nicky was just out of reach, both of them shivering with the aftershocks of being sliced and healed, and sliced and healed. He was _so close,_ but a numb terror had been spreading through his veins— he thought he would never be able to _touch_ his Nicolò again. 

There was so much blood to be seen over those few days, and yet the dark pool under his head in the ruins of that bombed out room still sank its claws into Joe’s soul. The sound of the bullet, the image of his unseeing eyes and his slack jaw, the _blood—_ it was everywhere. 

It had been a long, long time since Nicky took that long to return to him. It had been even longer since he had been killed so personally, so _brutally._

Joe didn’t think about the World Cup or Lord of the Rings as they pulled up the long gravel path to their destination. He didn’t even register his first sighting of the windswept cottage in Scarborough. He didn’t remember parking the car. He barely acknowledged anything outside of Nicky, opening the door, wrapping a warm, grounding hand around his and leading them up to the house. Joe was more tired than he had ever been, he was convinced of it. In all his 953 years, he’d never been this exhausted, this broken, this _hurt._

The weathered old door closed behind the lot of them, and Joe heard Andy’s long, tired sigh as she flicked on the light. Nile dragged her feet to the kitchen counter and leaned heavily against it, running her bloody hands down her face. Nicky had done his best to pick the glass out of her braids, but she still looked… well, she looked like she’d jumped out of a penthouse window. 

She was going to be good for the team. She wouldn’t be like… 

Booker hovered halfway between Andy and the door, as if he didn’t know if he was supposed to be there. Joe watched him, his brother, standing there with that hunted look in his eye, and it lanced through him like a blade. 

How many football matches had they sat side by side, and Booker still felt that alone? If his loneliness was such a curse, why did he not seek out their advice? They’d offered. 

200 years, and he never took them up on the offer to talk— not really. They had enabled him with his wine and his whiskey, honored his request to not be hugged or held, yet all this time, he had been lonely.

Part of Joe was screaming with guilt, crying _How did we not see?_ But the truth was that they _had_ seen. It was Booker who pushed them away. 

He pushed them all the way into a locked tower, strapped into tables, with Test Subject numbers where they had once had names. 

Joe’s eyes burned and his vision swam for the millionth time that day. Usually he would wait for the privacy of the shower and Nicky’s arms around him under the spray before he would let himself give over to his tears. He ached to move, to pull his lover down the hall where they could take care of each other properly, but Joe’s feet had rooted themselves into the rug. His knees were too heavy to lift, he couldn’t manage one more step, and his tears would not wait any longer. 

He didn’t care if they saw him cry— they were his family. And Booker deserved it. He deserved to see what he’d done.

* * *

The door of the safehouse closed behind them, and Nicky took a moment to survey the people that he loved. 

Andy let her boots drag across the rug as she dropped herself into a kitchen chair, hunched around her wound. Her face was drawn and pale, and she somehow already looked older. The knowledge that she actually was clawed deep into his heart. He swallowed. 

He should go get the first aid kit. He knew he should, but he couldn’t bring himself to move from where he was rooted between the sink and the door, holding Joe’s hand in his. A pull in his gut kept him fixed to his lover’s side, only wishing that he could be closer. He felt a magnetic force in the deepest parts of him, urging Nicolò to pull his lover to his chest and _hold him._ Hold him like he couldn’t in that lab. For _days._

If he did, Nicky wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep the tears at bay. He was certain that if he indulged the need, that his knees would give way, that the two of them would end up pressed flush and hopelessly clutching at each other on the kitchen floor. 

He shook himself of the image, wishing he could do it, and continued scanning over his family. 

Nile didn’t look any less tired than she had before she dropped off against his shoulder. The shine in her intelligent eyes was dulled by exhaustion, and not a small amount of grief. In coming to help them, she gave up her last shot of seeing her family. 

They all knew it would’ve been a bad idea, but that was beside the point. Nile made a sacrifice for them. She accepted her fate as an immortal, and she saved them from their worst nightmare. 

Without her, it was likely that they’d still be strapped down in Merrick’s lab, carved into pieces and left to dwindle into insanity. Like Quynh. 

He squeezed Joe’s hand and felt his lover grip him back with new vigor, as if they shared that same thought in that moment. He flicked his gaze over and took in the set of Yusuf’s jaw and the teary gleam that seemed to grow by the second. He was trembling in Nicky’s hold, beyond exhaustion, beyond relief, but also _beyond_ _pain._

Joe wasn’t looking at Nile like Nicky had been. He wasn’t looking at their savior, but at their betrayer. 

Booker hovered between the door and the kitchen table, isolated by an invisible, _palpable_ wall separating him from the group of them.

 _How fitting,_ Nicky thought, the rage that he’d forced into compliance for so long rearing its head again. He seethed, turning his own gaze away from his former brother in a desperate bid to hold his tongue. 

There were so many questions without proper answers. There was so much happiness between them in the past 200 years, all of it tainted now. There was a flicker of _guilt,_ too. 

Was it really their love that pushed him to this? Could that _really_ be a valid reasoning for such a blow? All this time, was it the _envy_ that laced his misery leading him to, not only suicide, but to sell off their family for medical torture? It felt like such a meager justification for such a _hateful_ act. 

The fire stoked higher in his gut, all the terrible things he wanted to say burning in his throat like bile. 

The betrayal ached throughout his whole body, as if he’d been struck by a car, but Nicky just swallowed. He shoved down everything he wanted to say— Booker could stew in his mistake. 

Nicky had other priorities right now.

He turned properly, facing his love to check in with more than just a glance. He was going to ask about a shower, about washing away the blood together and changing out of their ruined clothes. Any thoughts in his head died when he saw the look on Joe’s face, though. There were tears quietly spilling down his cheeks, and his jaw was clenched tightly. He visibly swallowed against a sob rising in his throat. He looked anguished, trembling and fighting for words. 

Joe was _never_ lost for words. It only happened after true disasters, and Nicky immediately shifted into a world that was all their own-- being there for Joe became his only job. He stopped caring about anything but the man in front of him. 

“ _Yusuf,_ ” he cooed, his name more of a whimper than a word, “Hayati, cuore mio, my _l_ _ove._ ” 

Neither of them could make do with just holding hands anymore, the magnetic tug between their souls too much to resist. Nicky lifted their joined hands to press Joe’s knuckles to his lips before untangling their fingers and cupping his face. 

He was so _precious,_ so dear to Nicolò’s heart that the sight of his tears squeezed the life out of his lungs. He brushed away the wet tracks with the pads of his thumbs and looked him right in the eyes.

 _“We are safe,”_ he said, slipping into Italian, _“we are together and we are free.”_

He let out a choked sob under Nicolò’s hands before closing the gap between them, throwing his arms around his shoulders and kissing him like a drowning man in need of air. Nicky melted forward into the kiss, his own tears finally welling beyond his ability to blink them away. His knees buckled under him, and Yusuf walked him back to lean against the counter, shuddering through the aftershocks of captivity, uncertainty, and pain. They poured it into each other, trying to share the immeasurable weight of the feeling, their hearts racing and erratic. Yusuf had once told him that the oxygen of the earthly world felt like a luxury compared to the necessity of Nicolo's kiss, and Nicky gripped him impossibly tighter at the memory. His lungs started to burn for air, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away. 

They didn’t part for long moments— moments Nicky could’ve lived in and happily suffocated— but when they did, they didn’t go far, simply pressing their foreheads together and letting their breaths mingle between them. Joe bumped Nicky's nose with his own, eyes closed against the world outside of their flush bodies.

The world where Nile had saved their lives from an eternity of miserable agony.

The world where Andy was mortal, but alive and safe. 

The world where Booker had betrayed them. He was shuffling his feet where he stood, and looking down at the scuffed wood floor with guilty eyes. 

He was the reason Yusuf cried, and that was enough for Nicky to want to tear him apart. 

The pad of Joe’s familiar thumb came up to trace his bottom lip. It immediately snapped Nicky out of his wrathful thoughts, his gaze focusing back on the man in front of him. He’d pulled back just far enough to see his lips and stared at them, transfixed. As if studying him for injuries. 

“What is it?” 

“He… he put his gun in your _mouth,_ Nicolò.” He stumbled through his emotion, “I couldn't protect you. The entire b-back of your head was… _You took so long.”_

“I’m here now, My Yusuf… you will never be without me. You are my _soul_.” He kissed the tip of the thumb against his lips. 

“But I thought it was—“ 

Nicky just shook his head, terror seizing him in a vice— “We will always be together, my love. I will not leave without you... It was not my time.” 

The events of the past few days left a bone deep ache in his body, like he'd had to heal every bone, regrow every organ inside himself. He felt different. They both felt a bit more broken for it— they had been examined and dissected. They had been _invaded._

Nicky had been unable to protect Joe, and Joe had been unable to protect him. 

They must have been thinking the same thing, because Joe buried his head in Nicky’s neck to hide the resurgence of his tears. 

Now, without Joe’s eyes to gaze into, he became acutely aware of their audience. 

Andy’s gaze was suspiciously bright, her lips curved into a small smile as she took in the scene. Nicky tried to indicate something to her with his eyes, but even he wasn’t sure what he was trying to say— Was it a reassurance that they were okay? Because that would be a lie. Nicky hadn’t felt this far from okay in _so_ long. 

She just nodded to him, and where he didn’t even understand himself, he knew exactly what his friend was trying to say— _I’m glad you’re safe. I was so scared I’d lost you too._

Nicky loved her. She was family— there was no part of them Andy hadn’t seen, and the tears slipping down his cheeks and clumping in his lashes didn’t feel shameful under her gaze. 

Nile hovered by Andy’s side, and was doing her best to give them the illusion of privacy. Her eyes flicked up to take them in every few seconds, but never for long. She made something in Nicky’s chest feel warm and soft— Nile had a kind heart. He hoped they weren’t making her uncomfortable. 

He didn’t look at Booker— he couldn’t bring himself to— but he felt his eyes burning into the back of Joe’s head, tracing the movement of Nicky’s hand up and down his spine as he molded himself into his side. A spark of new anger cracked like a whip inside him, and Nicky swallowed hard before he spoke. 

“Nile?” he forced his voice to stay soft and low. She didn't deserve his misplaced rage, not even a little. 

“Yeah?” 

“When you walk into the hallway, there are two doors— on the left is the supply closet. Inside, on the bottom shelf next to the bedrolls, there is a first aid kit. Could you get it for Andy?” 

“I’ll get it, Nile. Don’t worry about it—“ Booker’s voice came out on a bit of a rasp, and Nicky wasn’t prepared to hear it for some reason. The scoff was pulled up from the depths of him, rising on the crack of his anger. 

And it brought everyone to silent stillness. The tension hung heavy in the air, and Nicky gripped Joe tightly to his chest. As if any of them would dare separate them again. 

Joe, for his part, was no longer punctuating the quiet with his hiccupping cries. He was just breathing deeply along the line of Nicky’s throat, sneaking his hand under the hem of his filthy t-shirt to feel the skin of his hip. He clearly didn’t want to move, and Nicky was loath to move him himself. The fear he had felt when they were in that lab— when they were unable to touch, never sure of how much longer they would be able to stay together at all— washed over him all over again. 

And _that_ was all Booker’s fault. 

“Nicky.” Andy broke the silence, a warning tone in her voice. 

“You won’t even look at me?” 

Booker's voice was a wobbling, pitiful thing, and Nicky found himself shaking his head down at the floor, a humorless grin baring his teeth as he felt Joe's curls against his cheek and his heartbeat against his own. He had almost _lost_ him. A fresh tide of wrath swept up through him, and Nicky raised his chin to meet Booker’s sad gaze. 

He looked truly pathetic, and Nicky didn’t have a single stitch of Christian mercy in his heart. 

“Does it feel better this way? Because it is the last time I will look on you for a _very_ long time.” He hissed, pulse racing. 

Joe pulled back just enough to look at him, his hand going to Nicky’s jaw, trying to pull his gaze, but if Booker wanted his eyes on him, he would get it. Even if it made him squirm-- _especially_ if it made him squirm. 

“Nicky, listen—“ 

“ _No._ ” He growled, finally unable to hold it in any longer, “I have been listening— we have all _been_ listening. For 200 years. At your side for 200 years to try to guide you through this life, and you…” _you sold us out for your selfish suicide mission. You had isolated yourself so deeply in your grief that there wasn’t a moment's consideration of the_ other _lives you were ending by ending your own—_

“Perhaps you are right. What would I know of all these years alone? I had no family before I died, so I have no idea how _that_ grief feels. The only family I’ve had is this one, and I thought you were a part of that.” 

He didn’t care that his voice cracked, or that the room was rapt on his every word. He wanted Booker to know just how much he had thrown away. He wanted to know what they had done to deserve this. 

The silence blanketed them all with the tension of a coming storm, and Nicky felt the tumult of lightning and thunder in his heart. 

Booker cleared his throat, eyes swimming, hands gesturing blindly like he could grasp some of the shattered remains of what he had done. As if this was something that could be mended with words alone. 

“Nicolò, I am _sorry.”_ He was, Nicky knew it. He reeked of it, it hung on his shoulders like a yoke, it spilled out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. It was a new layer of grief to weigh him down, threatening to crush them all under its weight. 

And Nicky’s heart clenched in his chest, because he _still_ wanted to help him lift that burden. Just like he had when Jean-Pierre succumbed to his cancer, and in the first years that Booker dreamt of Quynh. 

He truly didn’t understand how Booker had come to this. What led him here? 

“Nicky?” Nile prompted. Only then was he jerked back into the moment, realizing that he was staring, lost in memory as he tried to parse out _how_. 

Booker had said he was _sorry._

One day, maybe, Nicky would be able to acknowledge that apology. One day, even later, he might be able to accept it. 

But that wasn’t now. His blood, bone, and brain matter was caked into his hair. He could smell the viscera and sterilized lab chemicals clinging to him and Joe. He could feel his lover’s tears drying into the collar of his shirt, and remembered the clench of absolute _terror_ as a syringe was plunged into his neck— when he thought he and his Yusuf might be separated forever. 

There had been jars full of their carved away flesh, and blood drying on their immobilized bodies, and a woman with a needle who had completely disregarded their humanity. 

_You and Nicky have always had each other._ That was what he had used to excuse himself— so what? So he had tried to take them apart? Was he trying to render them as lonely and bitter as he was? 

“I would like to know one thing.” He finally said, eyes unwavering from his fallen brother. Booker nodded like he had his back to the wall, facing a firing squad. “When, in your resentment of our love, did we become mice to you?” 

He flinched away as if Nicky had struck him, or run him through with his sword. But Nicky didn’t want to hurt him, not really. He was seeking answers, leaned against the kitchen counter, wrapped in the arms of his lover— who was _still_ trembling, a fine tremor in his bones that _Booker_ had put there. 

"What was our crime, Sebastien?" Nicky wanted to know. 

“I… I wasn’t thinking. I made a mistake—“ 

“That is not an answer—“ 

“Nicky—“ Andy cut in, pushing herself to her feet despite Nile’s sound of displeasure, coming to stand between the two of them. 

“It wasn’t supposed to _be_ you!” Booker finally cried, sounding like half a sob. “At first, it was only me I was giving to them, but Copley… he said they needed all of us. In order to help all of these people. I… my son died in agony. His wife suffered a months-long decline.” He tugged his hands through his hair, eyes wide and imploring, flicking back and forth from Nicky to Joe. “I was _wrong,_ Nicky, but I did this from grief and _loneliness_ — never from a place of hate.” 

The words felt hollow. Booker’s apologies, explanations, and tears were sucked in by the cavernous vacuum of his rage, quickly burning out to exhaustion and hurt confusion. Nicky was _tired._

“Perhaps you didn’t have someone in the way Joe and I have each other, but you have never been alone. You created your loneliness for yourself.” 

Even Andy flinched at that, but Nicky just looked straight through Booker. He hoped his gaze burned him, he hoped he regretted asking him to meet his eyes. 

“Ya Qamar.” Joe was cupping his cheek again, trying to break the lock of his eyes on Booker. “Nicolò, _look_ _at_ _me_.” 

Finally, Nicky tore his gaze away from the other man, blinking at Joe.

His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red and ringed with dark circles. He was dusty and bloody, but more steady now. His smile was warm and melancholy, and Nicky's anger weakened under his kind gaze.

Joe had the kind of heart that you wanted to bask in, like summer sunshine even in the dreary English countryside. Even in times of darkness. Nicky took a deep, shuddering breath and wished he had Joe's same command of language, that he could tell him all that he was, but it was all he could do just to hold him and let himself be held. 

"That's enough for now." he said, still raw from his tears. Nicky felt himself deflating as well, everything that wasn't _Yusuf_ evaporating into mist. "Let me help you get the blood out of your hair. We both need to shower, and I don't want to be alone." 

It was such a _vulnerable_ thing to say. Such an act of love. 

When Nicolo di Genova first killed Yusuf lifetimes ago, his fury went hand in hand with his crippling vulnerability. He was truly _alone_ , cursed and unwanted by all but God. It led him to do terrible things for the sake of belonging, in the throes of his own skewed logic-- logic without empathy. Logic that was more self-serving than godly.

Looking into his eyes now, though, after centuries of penance and love, he could hear his lover's honest words and see how he had bared his soul to him, and his own soul was reflected back to him. He was no longer alone. No matter how tarnished his faith became, Nicky saw God's eyes in Joe's face. 

Empathy had changed him. Embracing his vulnerability had remade him bit by bit-- it took a willingness to connect, but it was the best decision he had ever made. Letting Yusuf into his life had given him a true life after death. A chance at heaven on earth, and a chance to do right by his sins. 

His anger at Booker crumpled in on itself, and the burst of empathy-- of remembering what it meant to be _alone_ \-- spread through his veins. He believed what he'd said, but had he been too harsh? He understood how loneliness could ruin you. Was his fear leading him yet again, even after all these years of earning his own forgiveness? 

He nodded, and let Joe lead the way out into the hallway. 

* * *

They both cried again as the spray washed over them. Joe worked his fingers into Nicky's scalp, washing twice before the water ran clear, and then a third time for his own sanity. 

Nicky's touch was tender enough to steal his breath away, working the soap into a lather in every spot that Dr. Kozak had cut into him. Every stain of blood was scrubbed from his skin, like his lover was seeking absolution. For what, Joe wasn't sure, but he could take a guess-- even half mad with exhaustion, they were still two halves of a soul. 

"I am so proud of you." he whispered into Nicolo's skin, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder, "You said what had to be said." 

The silence hung there, Nicky's hands stilling on his hips, unsure. 

"You don't think it was... too much?" 

Joe was shaking his head before the words were even out of his mouth, "No. No, my love, I think you were truthful--" he kissed one cheek, "--and furious--" then the other, prompting the world's smallest smile to bloom on his face, "-- and _merciful_." And with that he tilted his face up to kiss his lips. 

Nicky whimpered into his mouth as he pulled back, fixing his gaze on him. "Merciful?" 

Joe only nodded as he pulled away. 

"Well, I told him he was a selfish piece of shit, a very pathetic man, and tried to leave him behind with his misery." he tried to smile, but it was a wry, humorless thing. "What are you thinking about, my love?" 

"That being alone in the world only breeds terrible things." he sighed, "That Booker’s actions were a result of being lonely." 

Nicky wasn’t meeting his gaze. _Oh._ That’s what this was about.

“My Nicolo, you let yourself grow. You worked for your forgiveness, to be a better man. You let me in, despite everything you'd been taught, across scriptures and languages and thousands of miles, ya Qamar." He lifted his chin and looked steadily at him. Nicky's eyes were piercing, intense as they searched his gaze. "You said it yourself-- Booker was _not_ alone. He wallowed in his grief and let it consume him. There is a difference, and there has to be a price." 

The rest of their shower was silent, nothing but reassuring touches and soft presses of lips to skin as they washed away the last of the lab. 

They were toweled off and pink with the steam, pulling on their sweatpants the next time the quiet broke. 

"Do you think he will grow?" Nicky asked, more breath than sound. 

Joe ached for the brother he had lost as he thought about it, pulling a shirt over his head. 

"Yes." he finally replied, "If you can do it, anybody can." 

Nicky snorted a laugh, cracking the closest thing to a smile that he'd seen in days. The sight of it loosened something in his chest, and Joe grinned back. 

"And _you_ ," he made sure to pause, to look the other man right in his soft green eyes "are the best man I have ever known." 

His Nicolo seemed to get lighter right before his eyes, those quiet doubts lifting from his shoulders and becoming one with the steam. Joe took his hand, and pressed his lips to their intertwined fingers, like Nicky had done earlier. When Joe had needed him. 

They had each other. They were safe, with their family. They could finally _sleep._

Joe didn't know what they would decide to do with Booker, but he knew he wouldn't be able to put this aside. It didn't have to be decided now, though. In fact, it shouldn’t. This was a topic for a rested mind and a less fractured spirit. 

They'd figure it out tomorrow. 

**Author's Note:**

> *** I should’ve mentioned haha I am on tumblr! My name is Aphroditestummyrolls there as well, so feel free to pop over ☺️


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